


The Curse's Comfort

by shelllessturtle



Series: Bittersweet [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, fluff with a touch of angst, in which neither of them act like morons and everything turns out okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelllessturtle/pseuds/shelllessturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he demanded comfort from the Queen, this particular live-in housekeeper was not what he had in mind. Then again, the Curse was his, so it made sense that it would know what comforted him best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse's Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to EccentricElf23 for her hard-core beta'ing skills and gentle ego-stroking when I got down on myself

Waking up the first morning of the Curse is difficult. His mind says that he should be lying on cold, flat rock, with a gentle twinge in his ankle from lack of movement and possibly the pain-killing magic wearing off. Instead, his body tells him that he is snuggled into a soft, warm bed, and his ankle is practically screaming from stiffness. His mind says that he should be able to lie around all day, or literally climb the walls if he feels like it. Instead, his body tells him that he needs to get up now, if only to answer the call of nature, but he’ll probably think of something else that needs doing shortly thereafter. His mind says that he should be alone but for his thoughts and the usual drippings of a cave. Instead, his body tells him that someone is singing downstairs.

And he recognizes the voice.

Rumplestiltskin fights his hardest not to sprint downstairs and wrap his body around his tiny housekeeper. Mr. Gold—he searches his new memories—is enamored with his live-in employee, feels like he has always been, but knows he is old and crippled and a literal and figurative bastard, and assumes that the pretty young woman who shares his roof and cleans his home would never look at him like that.

And perhaps she wouldn’t. She seems in his curse memories to be similar to his real memories, but who knows what subtle changes Regina might have made.

He works his way steadily through Mr. Gold’s morning routine; it will not do to hurry or to dawdle. Today is a day like any other, to all but Regina and himself, and he will not let his housekeeper believe it is anything else. Bad enough that he will be aware of the next twenty-eight years (and why in the name of all that is good and holy did he think _that_ was a good idea?); he will not put her through that, as well.

When he finally does make his way to the kitchen, the sight with which he is greeted is strikingly different and achingly familiar at the same time. Mr. Gold has seen this very sight—petite body carefully draped in an equally small sundress, auburn hair spilling down her back, sweet voice raised in gentle song—every morning since he hired her, but Rumplestiltskin has never seen this particular variation of this woman cooking for him. Nonetheless, there she stands.

Lady Belle of Avonlea.

Isabelle French, florist’s daughter.

He calls her “Miss French”, or, when he is feeling affectionate, “darling”.

She calls him “Mr. Gold”, or, when she’s feeling playful, “sir”.

She turns when she hears his cane tapping on the floor, and her smile brightens the whole room. Yes, the time until the Savior comes is going to be hell.

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It is four months before he slips up. Four long months of playing Mr. Gold and—stealthily, occasionally—preparing the search for Baelfire before he opens his mouth without thinking and calls her “Belle”.

When it happens, he freezes, expects her to demand who Belle is, perhaps turn distant and icy now that he’s gotten a little too close. But she smiles, says that she likes Belle a lot better than her usual nickname of Izzy, and if two years isn’t long enough for them to start using first names, when will it be?

Recognizing that opening for what it is, he racks his curse-memories for his first name. “Nicholas,” he finally says. “You can call me Nicholas.”

She smiles that bright smile of hers, the one that lights up the room, and says, “What would you like for dinner, Nicholas?”

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_She is seated on his wheel. She has held up her end of the bargain, gotten his straw, come back, asked for her story, and he, like the coward he is, can’t bear to tell her what he did. So he fudges a bit, doesn’t tell her the whole truth, tells her just that he lost his son._

_He knows he has made a mistake the instant he ceases speaking. Her eyes darken, and she is thoughtful. He knows that she must be regretting her decision to come back, and how could she not? Surely now she realizes what a coward he is, and she will be looking for her next chance to leave, to be free of him. And he will give it to her, just as soon as he can work up the strength to try._

_But she is leaning towards him. She is not standing up, not moving away, but coming closer. And, gods help him, he cannot resist moving closer, as well. She is leaning closer and her eyes flick down to his lips and what the_ hell _is she doing?_

 _But then she pulls away and she is frowning, thoughtful again, and gods above, he_ almost kissed her _. As he tries to get himself under control, he sees her bite her lip._

_“Rumplestiltskin?” she says softly._

_“What is it, dearie?” he breathes. He is still fighting not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless._

_“Can True Love’s kiss really break any curse?”_

_And he freezes. Where the hell had she heard_ that _? “It..._ can _.” He emphasizes the word delicately, wondering where she is going with this._

_“Are you under a curse?”_

_He wants to run. He is terrified, and the terror urges him to flee, even as Belle’s presence anchors him to the spot. “Technically,” he says tersely._

_“Do you,” and her cheeks flush a pretty pink, “do you think I could break it?”_

_He wants to scream even more than he wants to run. So this is what she came back for. Rid the beast of his power, and then he can’t chase her if he changes his mind and wants her back. She would truly be free, then, and he couldn’t do anything to bring her back. He wants to rage and storm and find out who the hell put this idea into her pretty little head, who told her about his curse, who told her how to rid him of his power._

_But before he can do anything, say anything, it strikes him. She is asking. She didn’t kiss him; she is waiting for his permission to break his curse. She wants to change him only if he wants to change. And for all she has said, he cannot assume that she knows it would take his power away._

_“I...think that you could,” he says carefully, “but I wish that you wouldn’t.”_

_She looks surprised. “You_ like _being cursed?”_

_He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “Not particularly, but the curse is the price for my power. And I need my power to find my son.”_

_Her hands fly to her mouth, and he was right; she didn’t know that. His beautiful housekeeper is horrible at lying, and the surprise on her face is genuine. “And I almost took it away!” She sounds horrified._

_He reaches out, takes one of her hands in his. “But you didn’t. You asked me, instead.” He smiles at her, brings their joined hands to his lips. “You know, True Love’s kiss only works if one of the participants wants the curse broken.”_

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He dreams about the past sometimes. He remembers a time when she was his, when he could hold her in his arms and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. It hurts and it helps in equal measure, especially with her so close, but out of reach. At least he never did anything so stupid as send her away.

They have very regular schedules, just like the rest of the town. Every weekday, he is at the pawnshop from eight in the morning until seven at night; weekends, from ten to two. On the first of the month, the shop is closed all day; first he collects rent, then he returns home to get the accounts in order.

Belle is a little more active, though most days she just cooks and cleans for him and works her way through his massive library. He wonders sometimes if she remembers the books she has read. Once a month, she has lunch with her father, who tries to get her to quit working at Gold’s and come home. She is always upset after that, and he contemplates suggesting she stop doing it, but shortly realizes it will have no effect. Every other Saturday evening, she goes out drinking with Leroy, the most unlikely pairing he could ever imagine. When he asks, without fail, every other Saturday afternoon, why she does it, she just laughs and says, “It’s the only night he’s guaranteed to stay out of jail.” She’ll always walk a stumbling Leroy home, then come back to Gold’s house dead sober and claiming she drank more than Leroy did.

Every four months, she drinks Dr. Whale under a table. Gold finds he lives for the times those nights are at the end of the month, and he then has the pleasure of retrieving rent from the good doctor when the man is stupidly hungover.

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_He is wary, at first, of kissing her too often. He tells himself that it is because she is young and untried, new to the practical application of love, but he knows it isn’t true. When he lets himself think it, he admits that he is afraid. Afraid of her power over him. Afraid that she will change her mind. Afraid that she will tire of his inane cruelty to others. Afraid that she will want to break his curse._

_When he finally gets the courage to tell her so—and only because she has asked for months now that he talk to her about these things—he watches her eyes cloud over in pain and curses himself for letting her know that he doubts her. Surely, she will draw away from him, realize she deserves someone who trusts her without question, leave him once and for all._

_But she takes his hand in hers and smiles softly and, oh, that is_ concern _in her eyes. “I would never want to take away your chance at finding your son,” she tells him. “And now that I know you don’t want it, any desire of mine for you to change would be selfish, and any selfish act is hardly an act of True Love, now, is it?”_

_“Oh, Belle,” he murmurs, and folds her into his arms. He buries his nose in her hair, breathing in her floral, feminine scent, wishing he could be a better man for her, not kissing her now because it would be he who broke the curse._

_“I love you, Rumplestiltskin,” she says. “All of you. Even the parts that belong to the darkness.”_

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_It is months later, half a year since she came back on her own, implicitly accepted his castle as her home, that she comes to him, blushing and shyer than he has ever seen her._

_“Rumplestiltskin?” She is quiet, the way she was when she wanted to know about True Love’s kiss._

_“What is it, darling?” He has not called her “dearie” since the first time they kissed._

_“Where…where exactly do you see this going?” She gestures between the two of them, indicating their relationship. “Are we just going to continue as we are, living together, kissing occasionally, or—” her face turns even brighter red “—are we going to go further?”_

_He goes still. Somehow, it has never occurred to him that she would think about him like that. He thinks of her as so precious, so pure, so innocent, that she would be hard-pressed to think like that at all, let alone about a monster like him. But he can’t tell her that. He takes her hand in his. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he tells her, “and I’ve fought it for just as long. I suppose I just forgot to stop fighting it.”_

_She raises her eyebrows at him. She has gotten too good at knowing when he is lying._

_He sighs. “I don’t know how you could want me,” he admits. He hates himself for doubting, though, this time, he is really doubting himself more than her._

_She leans forward, presses a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Rumplestiltskin,” she tells him seriously, “and everything that goes with it.”_

_He is awed by this woman, and he cannot believe he deserves her. Still, if she is offering, he is hardly strong enough to resist. He can only give in and have her._

_So he does._

_Repeatedly, and at length, whenever she’ll let him._

_Which turns out to be whenever he wants._

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Their relationship progresses very slowly in Storybrooke. Developments that had taken Belle mere weeks in the Enchanted Forest take years this time around. When he really thinks about it, Rumplestiltskin is actually surprised that things _do_ move forward. The rest of the town is stuck in stasis, nothing moving, nothing advancing, but his relationship with Belle slowly changes.

After two years, she begins going out of her way to touch him. She has never avoided physical contact, unlike most people in town, but now her fingers linger against his skin, now her hand strokes absently through his hair, now she stands closer to him, now she gently brushes against him as she walks by.

Four years after that, she begins kissing his cheek when one of them leaves the house. The first time it happens, he goes completely still, and she blushes, shy and unsure as she always seems to be in this area. Belle, his Belle, Lady Belle, had had no experience before him, he knows, and he suddenly wonders about Isabelle French’s romantic history. Had Gaston figured in it at all? But no, that man is likely still a never-wilting rose set on a windowsill in the Dark Castle. After the first morning it happens, he shows no astonishment, keeps his longing firmly in check, and every morning, on the way out the door, her soft, warm lips press gently into his freshly-shaven cheek as though she has done it every day since the beginning of time. And Mr. Gold can hardly seem to remember a time when she didn’t.

At the ten-year mark, she begins confiding in him. She says how much she likes working for him. She jokes that she got the better end of their deal, now that, after two years of working for him, there are no more hidden pockets of his insane, accumulated mess, and now she can just read most of the day, but murmurs occasionally that it is because she likes being friends with him. She tells him how much it hurts when her father pressures her to leave, that she is happy here, and why can’t her father see that? She remarks one day, in passing, flippantly, as if she doesn’t care, that the former deputy to the sheriff stares at her a little too closely when she goes out drinking with Leroy.

After thirteen years, she begins curling up against him in the evening. She molds herself into his side, rests her head on his shoulder, and reads or watches television with him. He cherishes her warmth pressed into him, even as it makes it that much more difficult to keep his hands to himself. He knows he cannot push things, knows it is the only way to keep Regina from suspecting.

Two years after that thought, it occurs to Rumplestiltskin to wonder why he even has Belle.

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_The Curse is to be cast soon. He knows it, can feel Regina approaching. He will make his deal with her, get his comfort, his power, move a step closer to his son._

_In the time between Snow White’s frantic visits, he has thought a lot about Belle. He wonders what she is doing with herself, all alone in the Dark Castle. He worries that Regina may have tried to take his little maid again. He tells himself that the castle is well-protected, and that Belle is a fighter._

_She knows where he is, his Belle. He has told her all in the run-up to his imprisonment, about the Curse, about his boy, about what he has to do. Hell, he even told her about the prophecy, the one about his undoing, and she, industrious little beastie that she is, has been working tirelessly ever since to find a way to circumvent it without resorting to killing a boy. She knows the real reason he asked for Ella’s baby, knows that if he is to find his son, he has to be easily available and “tamed” for the shepherd-turned-prince to allow his own True Love to see him while she is pregnant. Belle doesn’t like it, but she knows._

_When he is feeling self-doubting, wondering if perhaps she has decided that he is more trouble than he is worth, packed herself up and run home to Avonlea, he reminds himself of their parting. She cried, his brave Belle, knowing they won’t see each other again before the Curse is cast, and that it will be twenty-eight more years after that until the curse breaks. He assured her that she won’t be aware of it._

_She will still miss him, she said, and_ he _will be aware of the time passing. (He hadn’t even kept that from her, though he has to admit that he told her that for his own benefit, because he is scared of living the twenty-eight years without her, and he hoped a little of her bravery would rub off on him.)_

_He sits in the dank dungeon, Regina moving towards him, to learn she must kill the only person who loves her to get her revenge, and he knows that he could work Belle into the deal, make it so that she is with him, but it may stretch the deal too thin, and, as of now, Regina isn’t certain that Belle has stayed with him, and he cannot, cannot put Belle in more danger._

_So, when she appears, he asks for comfort, asks that she do whatever he asks, as long as he says “please”, tells her what she needs to know, and waves her away, as if he is still in charge of the whole situation._

_Because, honestly, he is._

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He asked for comfort. He asked for comfort with Belle on his mind, and though Regina could not have known, he created the Curse, and it obviously knew what he wanted. If the Curse has given him Belle as a semi-torturous comfort, he isn’t going to complain. Besides, Regina probably _still_ can’t figure out how it happened. He lets the matter rest.

Eighteen years have passed by the time he encounters the Sheriff of Nottingham. Regina doesn’t really know the man, so his story is unimaginative. Nott used to be Graham’s deputy until he got a little too familiar with some young women on the job. Now, he haunts bars and pays a little too much attention to Isabelle French. That is one carryover from the old world that Rumplestiltskin would rather do without.

He comes across the man shortly after procuring the Savior’s boy for Regina (one of his more convoluted flourishes, yes, but the girl will need _some_ incentive to come). They merely pass each other on the street, but Rumplestiltskin knows that this is the man who is bothering Belle, and it takes all his willpower not to bash Nott’s face in.

At the twenty-year mark, Belle begins seeking him out in public. She comes to his shop during the work day and sits inside with him. She drags him to Granny’s occasionally; Mrs. Lucas is never happy to see Gold, and Gold himself isn’t all that fond of the old woman, but Ruby and Belle are good friends, so the older pair put up with each other. Belle will sometimes moon over the library, and Rumplestiltskin promises himself that, as soon as the dragon in the basement is gone, he will open it for her.

Four years later, the former deputy wanders into Gold’s shop one afternoon and says he wants to make a deal with the pawnbroker.

This in itself isn’t astonishing; plenty of people make asinine deals with him these days. It’s just a part of the routine. The nature of Nott’s deal is what gives Rumplestiltskin pause.

“I need Izzy French’s address.”

Gold’s lip curls even as Rumplestiltskin wonders if he could possibly turn this man into something unpleasant without Regina noticing. “What makes you think I know it?” he demands.

“She’s always hanging around you,” Nott says.

“Just because I know the girl, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I know where she lives,” Gold sneers.

“You rent to _everybody_ ,” Nott tries again. “You gotta rent to her. I’ll do anything for it.”

“Unfortunately,” Gold tells him coldly, “that information is not for sale. Ask the girl yourself.”

Nott glares with impotent rage for a few moments, then leaves. Rumplestiltskin decides not to tell Belle; she has to deal with this creep enough as it is.

It’s another three years before that decision comes back to bite him in the ass.

He doesn’t know why he decides to go for a walk that evening. It’s something Belle used to make him do, go for walks around the castle grounds at the oddest hours. She wouldn’t be able to sleep sometimes, and she would find him in his work room at two in the morning, having forgotten to go to bed. She would drag him away from his work, and they’d take a moonlit stroll around their domain. Afterwards, they’d curl up in bed together, and sometimes she would whisper that she slept better by his side. He always agreed. Now, though, he has been alone in his memories of their home for twenty-seven years, and he has only just now worked up the courage to do this by himself.

He has begun counting down the days until the Savior arrives, and he feels he may be forgiven this one childish pursuit because it has been _twenty-seven years_ living in limbo. He is eager and anxious, and when he thinks about it too much, he can practically taste Belle’s lips in anticipation of kissing her again.

But he is still alone now, and moreso tonight than usual, because Belle is out with Leroy. He was feeling lonely and sorry for himself in the house, and decided that Mr. Gold did not indulge in pity parties (a colloquialism that still makes Rumplestiltskin laugh), and so left the house.

And here he is, limping down the quiet Storybrooke streets, a little too close to the bar Belle and Leroy frequent and wondering what the hell got into him to let himself walk this way. He is about to turn back—Belle will be home soon, and then he won’t be quite so alone—when he hears rough male laughter and a far-too-familiar female voice raised in anger and terror.

He pauses, locates the source of the noises, and flies toward a nearby alley like an avenging angel (and what a world it is when Rumplestiltskin can be favorably compared to an angel). At the mouth of the alley, he pauses again, steadies himself. Rumplestiltskin wants to tear in, rip limb from limb the man who dares terrify his precious Belle, but Mr. Gold knows that calm and collected is the best way to enter this scene. So he slides into the persona of the pawnbroker, the caustic bastard no one likes, not the vulnerable, slightly broken man who has loves his housekeeper (and when the _hell_ did all these layers develop?) and steps into view of the pair in the alleyway.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The words march themselves out dutifully, separate from the part of his brain taking in the scene.

“Nothing that concerns you, old man,” Nott spits. He is dangerously close to Belle, pinning her wrists to the wall with what must be bruising force, given the amount Belle is struggling.

Belle’s eyes go wide, and she looks pleadingly at Gold, silently begging for help. Even if he hadn’t planned on giving her a hand, that look would have sealed his fate.

“I think you’ll find that there you’re wrong,” Gold replies. Rumplestiltskin is surprised at the quality of his own voice, smooth and icy at the same time, and he wonders vaguely if he’ll ever be able to do it again. “Anything that has to do with my housekeeper concerns me.”

Nott freezes, astonishment writ large across his features, and Belle uses those precious few seconds to rip one of her wrists free, elbow Nott in the stomach, and pull fiercely away from him. She crashes into the protective embrace of Gold’s arms, and he steadies her, holds her close while she trembles for a few moments.

“Stay away from her,” Gold snarls, feeling Belle relaxing into him as the fear drains from her body.

“Or what?” Nott is pretending he isn’t afraid, and Gold almost laughs, because the boy’s voice trembles. “You’ll kill me?”

Rumplestiltskin cannot help the the smirk that twists across his face. “Oh, no, dearie,” he replies softly. “What I’ll do to you won’t be anywhere near as merciful as death.” Belle goes willingly when he leaves Nott staring after them, fearful and probably trembling.

They walk faster than he is ordinarily comfortable with, because he knows Belle must want to get home as soon as possible. The whole time, he keeps his arm around her waist, supporting, not restraining; protecting, not coercing. Belle can feel the difference; he knows because she has molded herself to him as well as she can while they are upright. Her hand rests on his, and she could easily pull him off her, but he gets the feeling that, instead, she is trying to hold him there.

When they reach the house after twenty minutes of hard walking, Rumplestiltskin leads Belle directly up to her room. As she sinks down to sit on the edge of her bed, she hardly seems aware of anything, and this frightens him. He goes down on one knee—the good leg, but he knows immediately that he’s going to regret this—and looks up at her.

“Belle?” he says softly. “Are you okay?”

He counts his heartbeats while he waits for her to reply. One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—

She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He didn’t—he didn’t _do_ anything, you got there too soon, but—” Her voice catches, and she stops, breathes deeply. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

Rumplestiltskin nearly flies into a panic. Belle is always the strong one, the fearless one. Belle is the one who makes him brave. How is he supposed to do the same for her? How can he be the strong one? He, the coward, the runner, who hides behind power and a scowl so no one will get close enough to see his terror?

But something—probably Belle, like always—keeps him together. “It’s okay to be scared,” he tells her, taking her hands in his. It’s something she told him once, when he admitted how much of a coward he is. “It’s even okay to run and hide, sometimes. A bit of fear will keep you alive. Just take a few deep breaths, and then take it one step at a time.” He pauses, looking for the right words, and millennia of Dark Powers would be laughing their collective asses off if they had any control here. “Something terrible almost happened to you, and it’s all right if you’re not okay right away.”

She smiles; it’s sad, but it’s something. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

They remain like that for a moment more, not quite looking at each other, then he gets unsteadily to his feet. “You should sleep,” he says, and barely awaits her nod before turning to leave.

He doesn’t get to the door before her voice arrests his movements. “Nick?”

He almost cries, because she only ever calls him “Nicholas”, because her voice is small and a little bit broken, like it was the first time she called him “Rumple”, because how the hell can they get an analogue for their last life in something like this. “What is it, darling?” He says it like that because he has always said it like that, no matter what life they were living, not because of some vain wish for her to remember before the Curse breaks.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she confesses, voice even smaller than before.

And because he can deny her nothing, because her innocence has nearly been tainted in a way no one should ever have to deal with, because she is frightened, and _not_ because he has been longing for twenty-seven years to have her in his arms again, he nods, says, “I’ll just change, then I’ll be right back,” and slips from the room.

He changes faster than he has done anything in this world-in-stasis, but he doesn’t go back right away. He takes care of a few other things, takes a moment, tries not to let his mind run wild, then slowly limps back to her room. She needs some time, as well, after all.

When he returns to Belle’s room, she is tucked under the covers already, watching the door. He smiles gently and slips into the bed to join her. Immediately, she is right next to him, curling into his side, clinging to him. He wraps his arms around her instinctively, and soon she is sprawled half across his chest, sobbing into his pajamas.

He doesn’t shush her, doesn’t tell her that it’s okay, because it isn’t, and she has definitely earned the right to cry. Instead, he strokes her hair and back and wishes he could tell her he loves her.

She cries herself out, but she doesn’t remove herself from his chest. They fall asleep together and wake up the next morning in a warm, content tangle of limbs.

The second night, she doesn’t invite him back into her bed, and he wonders if she doesn’t want him there, or if she thinks he doesn’t want to be there. Given the rest of their relationship, either is possible. So Rumplestiltskin goes to bed alone, missing his Belle a little more fiercely than usual, and perhaps that is why he is awake and out of bed so quickly when she screams.

It was a nightmare, and she begs him to stay with her again. He readily acquiesces, and, once they have settled into a comfortable position, he whispers into her hair, “Remember, it’s all right not to be okay, and I’ll hold you as long as you need.”

She never asks him to stop.

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Rumplestiltskin oversleeps on the Savior’s first full day in town. He feels as though he cannot be blamed, though, because he and Belle were up late the night before, having gotten very drawn into a book they are reading together, and now Belle is curled, warm and eternally trusting, into his side. He doesn’t want to pull away from her, but he knows he has to.

When he begins to shift away, though, Belle tightens her hold on him and snuggles more fiercely into his side. “Belle,” he says, warring between laughing and pulling her closer. “I have to get up.”

“Nope,” she replies, too clear to have just awoken. “You make a good pillow.”

He does laugh at that. “It’s rent day,” he tells her.

“Exactly. The citizens of Storybrooke don’t need you terrorizing them first thing in the morning.”

“I’ve never heard you complain before,” he teases.

She waves this comment away airily. “We’ve never been in this situation on rent day before.”

Rumplestiltskin is about to argue when he realizes she is right. According to Gold’s magically edited memories, the incident with Nott had only happened two weeks ago.

“You have a point,” he concedes. “All right, darling, what do I do this morning instead of terrorizing Storybrooke’s citizens?”

“Breakfast,” she says decisively. “We’re going to have a nice breakfast together.”

He laughs, agrees, and cannot help but think of all the breakfasts they shared in the Dark Castle.

Belle is an excellent cook, and always has been, but Rumplestiltskin isn’t really aware of what he is putting in his mouth. Belle is happy and a little giddy, in a better mood than she has been since Nott, and it makes Rumplestiltskin glad to see. She has been up and down since it happened, but this is the first time he has seen her real smile in a year.

They linger over the food, and then he helps her clean up afterwards. Finally, when he has no more excuses to stay, she walks him to the door. She presses her usual kiss to his cheek, and tells him, “Go make the nice people cower in fear.” He laughs again, sweeps a bow much more suited to Rumplestiltskin than Mr. Gold, and leaves.

Because he has started much later than usual, most of his tenants are not in their regular places. He has to track each of them down (because obviously none of them have thought of how much easier the whole process would be if _they brought the money to him_ , like in a normal town), and it is late evening by the time he collects the last of it.

He stands in the Lucases’ establishment behind a young, blonde woman renting a room, and he has to keep his manic grin of triumph under tight control when he hears her name. The Savior is here and soon he will have Belle back and shortly thereafter he will have Bae back and everything will finally, _finally_ be all right.

He smiles on his way home to see the library’s clock tower moving.

When he makes it home, he finds Belle sitting at the kitchen table, looking pensive, studying the table’s grain. When he greets her, she looks up, and he can see tears forming in her eyes. He immediately wants to ask her what’s wrong, to promise to fix it, to hold her close, but before he can do any of that, she ducks her head again and speaks.

“How did you do it?” she almost whispers. She doesn’t let him answer. “All on your own. I don’t know that I could have done it alone, especially not with you right there.” She looks up at him, her eyes teary but her smile wide. “I don’t care what anyone says. You’re the bravest man I know, Rumplestiltskin.”


End file.
